Page 8 of Nacho Boyfriend

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“Dude. She’s a real chick magnet.”

“Shut up,” I say, practically growling at my brother, Nate.

We’re in Laguna Beach, where he has his insurance office next to the downtown art galleries, pubs, and boutiques. We’re strolling the boardwalk on Main Beach and the chick-magnet he’s referring to is my sister-in-law’s dog—a ridiculously tiny Yorkshire terrier named Brownie. January’s assistant, Cher, dropped Brownie off at my house this morning after dog-sitting all week while my brother Enrique and his wife are on their honeymoon. Now it’s my turn for dog duty, I guess. Something about Cher’s contractual days off. It’s all good, except for the explosion of pink all over this poor animal. Today it’s a pink tartan dress with a matching pink bow perched on her head. A baby pink collar with a matching pink leash complete the ensemble. Along with the dog, special food, toys, and treats, Cher dropped off a whole Louis Vuitton suitcase stuffed with Brownie’s frilly clothes.

“I dunno if it’s chicks we’re attracting,” I say.

Nate dips his head to scan his outfit—ivory, snug-fitting slacks that taper to just above the ankle, a canary yellow button down dress shirt (also form-fitting), tan Rothy’s without socks, and designer sunglasses. He’s impeccably dressed since it’s a workday for him, but walking next to him with this prancing dog fashion show is projecting more of a ‘couples’ vibe than ’two brothers hanging out’ vibe.

As if on cue, two bikini-clad women intersect our path on the boardwalk, having come straight from the sand.

“Awww! Can we pet your dog?”

“Sure,” I say, dropping my voice to the lowest possible register. “It’s not my dog, though.”

The women are so enthralled by Brownie, they probably didn’t note the last thing I said or the manly timbre of my voice. I suppose I don’t really care.

“She’s so precious,” one of them says, letting Brownie lick her face. It’s kind of disgusting. This dog might eat her own poop for all she knows.

“I just love her little outfit,” says the other, crouched so low, her bikini top is revealing more than what’s prudent. I just want to move along, but Nate’s enjoying himself immensely.

“Are you girls local?” he asks, trying to lie on the suave guy act.

“Yeah,” one of the girls answers. “Emerald Bay.”

“Some nice homes up there,” says Nate, all smooth talker.

The girls glance at us and shrug. The one who let Brownie lick her face tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“Thanks for letting us pet your dog,” she says, waving as she and her friend walk away. “Happy Pride.”

Nate opens his mouth and snaps it shut. I laugh, pointing a finger up from his shoes to his snug yellow shirt. “This is a good look for you… honey.”

I snap my fingers in a Z formation..

“What? I…” He calls after the girls. “I’m not… he’s my BROTHER!”

But they’re long out of earshot and I nudge Nate to cross Pacific Coast Highway with me, since we’ve reached the corner just as the crossing light turned green.

“Let it go, brother. You won’t get any phone numbers with a dog in a pink dress.”

Spotting an ice cream shop, Nate makes a beeline for it. “Fine. But I’m starved.”

“Didn’t you just finish your lunch?”

“That was a half hour ago, Nacho.”

He orders a single scoop, offering to treat me to a cone, but I decline. My body is a temple and ice cream is structural damage.

“You know I don’t eat sugar,” I say.

“Oh. Then you can ignore the candy bar I slipped in your lunch box.”

“You mean the insulated bag I keep in my car for my juice cleanse?”